


Each our Own Devil

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Dom/sub, M/M, hey this is pretty dark, sex as a bad coping mechanism, zolf is very tense and so is hamid and they have an arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Zolf Smith
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	Each our Own Devil

Zolf is in his room when Hamid comes to him, standing by the window, looking out at the world they’re trying to save. Hamid remembers the last time he saw him like this - in his wheelchair, in Paris, with the ruins of everything around them. 

* * *

_“I don’t feel powerful! I feel helpless!”_

_Hamid wrings his hands. Steps forward. “Maybe…”_

_“What?”_

_“Maybe I can help you feel more powerful?”_

* * *

“Thought you’d come,” Zolf says, but doesn’t turn around. “You really think that’ll help? Now?”

“I think,” Hamid wets his lips, heart hammering against his chest. “I think it might help both of us, Zolf.”

Zolf nods once, turns to face him. “I reckon you might be right.”

* * *

Zolf's fingers are so broad and calloused and warm as they tighten around his throat, his cock is thick and straining, stuffing Hamid so full, the whiskers of his beard scraping against the shell of his ear. "You don't deserve them," he rasps and Hamid can't move his head enough to nod frantically in agreement. "You didn't earn this."

Lights start going off behind Hamid's eyes and he's so hard it hurts but Zolf is covering him completely, the solid weight of him, the heat of him on him and in him and pressing down harder, and harder as Hamid whimpers and tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. "Fuck," Zolf's voice is ragged and his hips snap faster, harder, desperately jerking deeper. "Fffff... _gods_. Hamid." Hamid scrabbles at Zolf's arms with fingers that have become claws and tries to arch his hips enough to get the friction he needs. He can't move. He can't breathe. He needs this so badly... Zolf grunts and snaps forwards once, twice, and again, and Hamid feels the spurt of him deep inside and sobs with relief and disappointment as the grip around his throat fades, the rush of sensation enough to push him over the edge, his cock jumping and spitting between their bodies as he heaves and gasps for breath, tears streaming now.

Zolf rolls his hips again, pushing his spent cock further up inside Hamid like a punctuation mark, a coda to their fucking, to all of their clashes, every harsh word and judgmental rant, every time they couldn’t express themselves through words and had to resort to this instead.

Whatever this is. 

Zolf slumps forwards, panting, and Hamid is enclosed by the weight of him, by his scent and the heat of his skin.

Hamid is still crying, a steady stream of tears without sobs, but his limbs are loose and heavy and the fractured glass he’s been carrying in his chest since Rome is dulled. He reaches up a hand to tangle in Zolf’s hair. Zolf makes a muffled sound into his neck, then moves back, gently pulling himself out of Hamid who lets out a soft whine of disappointment at the loss of stretch, of heat and fullness.

“Don’t,” Zolf says, taking Hamid’s hand - the one that is still trying to tangle in Zolf’s hair, and pushing it firmly, but gently against Hamid’s chest. “That ain’t what this is about. And you know it.”

Hamid swallows. The soreness around his neck is enough of a reminder that no, this isn’t what it’s about. It’s not about softness and companionship and love.

“D’you need healin?” Zolf asks, voice still rough. Hamid shakes his head.

He deserves this. And he doesn’t deserve it. Zolf needs this, and doesn’t need it.

“Right then.” Zolf turns away, picks up his shirt and his pants. Starts to dress. Hamid blinks the last of the tears away and sits up, smoothing his hands through his hair and murmuring the spell that he needs to face the outside world.

They’ll circle around each other for another week. Maybe two. Three if they’re lucky. And by then, maybe they’ll have saved the world. Maybe one of them will be dead, or both.

If not, Hamid will be back again.


End file.
